


five times, four times (one time)

by yonderdarling



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forehead Kisses, Gen, Onesided Sherlock/Joan if you want, Pining, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times sherlock kissed joan, four times he tried, and one time she kissed him. and the inverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed practise writing kissing scenes, so I wrote some kissing scenes. Mostly unbetaed (thanks Ameera!), mostly written whilst horrifically sleep-deprived or slightly tipsy. Set at various points throughout all seasons, some more specific than others. Hope you enjoy them!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed practise writing kissing scenes, so I wrote some kissing scenes. Mostly unbetaed (thanks Ameera!), mostly written whilst horrifically sleep-deprived or slightly tipsy. Set at various points throughout all seasons, some more specific than others. Hope you enjoy them!

**1\. Man on a Ledge, Woman on a Step**

Sherlock, as far as she could tell, hadn't slept for over seventy hours. Usually she, as his sober companion, would be more concerned over that. However she'd had maybe six hours sleep over the past three days herself (snatched in the back of taxis and police vehicles and at one point, Marcus's shoulder). But this was almost irrelevant, compared to the big picture - they'd caught the group of people who wanted to recreate the Tokyo subway sarin attacks in the New York train system.

 "Watson," he said. 

She turned to him after taking two steps up the staircase of the Brownstone, his exhaustion belied only by his four days of stubble and over-bowed shoulders. 

"That was you," he said, eyes focusing tight in on her face, the height difference reversed by her perch. "You were the one who noticed the discrepancy in Bukowski's shoelaces, his finger movements. You saved-"

"We saved - " said Joan, stifling a yawn but letting her smile show. 

"You and me. We," said Sherlock, looking yet more manic and wide-eyed, and before she could even think about telling him to _please get some sleep,_ he reached up and kissed her on the corner of her mouth. 

Unfortunately, he tasted and smelt exactly like he'd not showered in four days and had been living on coffee, pocket mints and Chinese take-out. Joan brought her hands up to his shoulders, pushed him gently off and took a further step up. Sherlock blinked twice, as if waking up, then nodded and smiled. He turned to go into the living room. 

"Excellent work Watson, excellent," he said over his shoulder. "It's a shame you're moving on in a few weeks. Detective work suits you."

Joan slept for eighteen hours and made one abortive attempt to talk about the kiss with Sherlock. ("Can we have a talk about boundaries?" "In my defence, seventy hours without sleep and saving potentially hundreds of people from a terrorist attack is an experience that blurs even my mind. I apologise. It shan't happen again.") When it didn't appear to be an issue, she didn't push. The mystery of who was Irene soon became the question at the fore.

 

 

_(1.5. "I'm still not used to American customs - are you meant to kiss under Mistletoe even when it isn't Christmas?"_

_"Come near me and I swear you'll be in a support meeting so fast your head will spin.")_

 

 

**2\. Madness for Two**

 "I think she's the person you love most in the world," Mycroft says, and damn him, _damn him damnhim_ he's right and though other people could see it can see it _will see it_ because she will be okay _she will be alright,_ other people wouldn't _say it_ because occasionally he remembers he feels for Watson so strongly it's like a hand has entered his chest and compresses his lungs and terror floods his veins because she is so important. 

It's nothing as pedestrian or as banal or base as romance and sex. It's _storge_ (she's become family) and _philia_ (the most profound because it is freely chosen) and _eros_ (he loves her) and it's _agape_ (he will tear the world apart to get her back even if she chose to leave tomorrow and he knows this might be it this might be the last straw he thought he was stronger than this).

 And later Watson is back and she's alright and he's staring and within her orbit and takes her face in, committing it to memory and he can't find the words in the screaming vortex that is his mind right now and there is _heroin right there in the room and he hasn't taken it Watson I am strong are you proud_ and she is leaving and she is going to leave and things are going to change and-

"- sherlocksherlock Sherlock Sherlock, breathe breathe breathe" she's saying, and not touching him because you're Not Meant to Touch People who are having panic attacks and that's what he's having because all symptoms (hyperventilation, stabbing chest pains, the unreality that is this room, that is the fire crackling in the grate, that is Watson stooping to look at his face, that is the white lines on the edge of his vision and the floor hard beneath his knees and sweating palms) point to go. 

"Sherlock look at me you need to look at me" and he can't see so he reaches for her instead, grabbing onto her hands like lifelines. She brings her hands to his face, he drags his eyes up to meet with hers and she breathes in exaggeratedly slowly, showing him how to slow down and stop and breathe in again slow and stop breathe out and slow and in and slow and out.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry," he realises he's saying, resting his face in her cool palms. Soft. Beeswax. Old habits die hard. "I'm sorry, you were sleeping, I just-"

"Hey, hey, it's okay," she says, running one of her thumbs along his cheekbones. She found a new flat. He heard her. She's leaving. Briefly, he lets himself forget this, the stillness of his mind (the first time since Mycroft showed up again on their door, scum bobbing to the surface yet again _i love you, brother, this year has been a gift_ ) a balm against what is coming. He tilts his head and presses a kiss to her palm, resting his lips there, and she smiles like she holds the key to all knowledge with eyes that are filling up with water. 

"I'm going to be okay," she says, and he nods, not trusting himself to speak. "And so are you."

 

 

_(2.5. "Being a sober companion does not mean I attend to every need you have! Especially not those.")_

 

 

  **3\. Frosty Puffs**

Joan watched her breath turn into visible puffs in the chilly air as she stood outside the office building. Traffic was bumper to bumper, unmoving on the icy roads, and she stamped her feet to try and get her blood was pumping. Cupped in her gloved hand, her phone vibrated. 

MARCUS: Any movement on your end with the case?

She tugged her glove off her right thumb and thought for a moment. Sherlock was currently breaking and entering, under the guise of an interested client looking to keep his growing wealth from being gutted by the IRS. If they would find any evidence that would allow them to arrest Colin Lynch for the murder of would-be whistleblower Marcia Jonas, it would be in his office. However Lynch was too smart to keep anything on a cloud server, and so an in-person investigation had ensued. It also meant Joan was on lookout for Lynch returning; and that she could no longer feel her nose. 

JOAN: We're still making inquiries. I'll keep you posted. You?

MARCUS: Same here - talk soon. 

Just as her eyes skimmed the writing on her phone's screen, there was a sudden flurry of movement at the entrance to Lynch & Davies. Two security guards stepped out of a car that had been sitting at the curb. Joan quickly called Sherlock, who answered sounding out-of-breath and almost like he was eating something. 

 "I'm in the lobby," he said. "On my way to you-"

"Sherlock, security's already set up outside, you need to find a different-"

"Yes, darling, I'm terribly sorry I'm late, but my - excuse me, of course, one moment Joan…."

"J-" began Joan, her name sounding almost alien coming out of Sherlock's mouth, before catching herself. She listened carefully.

 "Thank you, no problem at all - conference call with the London office ran late, we'll have to run to catch our reservation if we want to get there at all," he continued. "Are you where I left you? Can you hail a cab?"

"No cabs, we're going to have to walk," she said. "Sherlock, you're not actually trying to get out the front door - oh my God." She watched, gobsmacked, as the man himself strode right through the doors, nearly walked into one of the security guards, then shrugged and walked towards Joan without a care in the world.

"Amazing how a nice coat and good suit can fool so many people," he said, still on the phone though he was barely a few metres away. "Though apologies for what I'm about to do next."

"Do you have something in your mouth?" Joan asked, as Sherlock hung up, pocketed his phone and took her face in his hands. He nodded, and kissed her square on the mouth, his lips cool and chapped from the cold weather. Something pressed against her lips and dumbstruck, Joan opened her mouth. Using his tongue, Sherlock pressed something small and wrapped in what felt like plastic into her own mouth. He dropped his hands to her waist and pulled his face away. 

Quickly Sherlock kissed Joan again on the cheekbone, stubble rasping at her skin - "sorry-" and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, propelling them down the street into the snow. She snaked her arm around his waist and tucked her hand into his coat pocket. Playing along seemed the best bet, even if it did feel horrendously weird. Joan glanced behind them, just in time to see one of the security guards stop following Sherlock and turn away, back towards the building. 

"You can take that out of your mouth now," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry, I was copying it onto a memory-card and then Lynch's secretary came into the room. I locked her in his washroom, but she still managed to cause a ruckus. They were doing pocket searches as I tried to get past the reception."

Joan waited until they'd crossed the street and gone down a block before removing the small blue card - wrapped in yes, what looked like part of the plastic wrapper from around a box of cigarettes - from her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her glove. "You were a little uh - overenthusiastic, there."

"We should probably have a code word for when we need to pull a switch like that," mused Sherlock, ignoring her critique as Joan slipped the card into her inner pocket. "And I should apologise again-"

"Just - you're paying for lunch. And I want a good lunch. After I call Marcus."

 

 

_(3.5. "I think he's spotted us."_

_"Well, how can we distract him? Sherlock - no. I know exactly what you're thinking, and no."_

_"Bell?"_

_"Don't even look at me. Don't even think about it.")_

 

 

**4\. A (Less Than) Triumphant Return**

 She'd worked so hard on designing and arranging this apartment after moving from the Brownstone; her own Sanctum Sanctorum with better lighting and tasteful art and Clyde with a proper, elevated terrarium. Everything the Brownstone wasn't. Her apartment was polished surfaces and matched cutlery and crockery and an office area and a living area and where everything wasn't spilling into everything else. 

Joan stood in the middle of the living area, lights overhead switched off, the glow of New York illuminating the half-empty boxes of her soon-to-be-former apartment. The hallway light still burned brightly, casting a yellow slice of light across bare floorboards. Sherlock's silhouette cut into this too, a tense-shouldered shadow at her back.

"Are you sleeping here or would you like to come back to the Brownstone?" he asked quietly.

Joan shrugged, keeping her back to him. "I - I think I'll stay here," she said. "Can I say thank you, though?"

"For what?"

"For the past two weeks. After Kitty, you getting the groceries, staying around here - helping me pack, for finding that uh, guy, to move my stuff - " because that had been a surprise, part of her had been sure that he would find some ancient cold case that needed solving, "for being there. Here."

"I can stay again, if you'd like," he said, walking up behind her. "The couch is more than adequate." Sherlock moved beside her, following her gaze out the window. 

"I'd rather be alone, just for the night. But thank you."

He nodded, still looking out at the city. With a sudden movement Sherlock placed his hand on her shoulder, leant over and kissed her on the side of the head, resting his lips there for a few seconds. He squeezed her shoulder and then was striding for the door, hands balled at his sides.

"I'll see you in the morning, Watson," he said. "But please feel free to call me if you need anything."

The door shuts behind him, and Joan knew he wouldn't move until he heard her moving to lock it (with the inadequate lock, but still), and so she did, checking them all twice. Sherlock's footfalls moved away from her door, and she turned back to face the lights of New York.

 

Joan went to bed, but she didn't sleep. 

 

 

_(4.5. "And no, I am not kissing you just to irritate Mycroft! You are a grown man. I'm not a pawn in your game of who can be the most pig-headed and male.")_

 

  

**5\. Boxed Detective**

 Blinking through the grey fuzz that had obscured her vision, Joan shook herself awake. She tried to breathe in and instead choked on the dank air inside the box. Her coughs made her whole body shake, her boots banging against the bottom of her small prison.

"Watson! Watson-"

"In here!" she managed to choke out, focusing all her energy on continuing to kick. There was little time and little air left; she'd been in here hours. There were knocks on the lid of the box, a desperate scratching at the wood. 

"BELL!" she heard Sherlock shout. "IN HERE!"

She heard Sherlock grab the lock from the outside, the sound magnified and distorted within her tiny prison. Outside, tiny clicks of Sherlock's lockpick, scraping metal. Silence inside, filled with her own laboured breathing. There was a heavy clunk and a clatter. Sherlock threw open the lid of the box, the white light flooding in and blinding Joan. She sucked in a lungful of air and began to cough. She drew in another breath, marvelling in the cool air, eyes watering in the bright light. Sherlock was frantic and frenetic. He reached into the box, untied the bands around her hands and wrists with shaking hands, helped her sit up.

"Are you okay? Are you alright?" Sherlock smoothed her sweaty hair back from her face, peered into her eyes. "You're not concussed, but there's an ambulance outside-"

"I'm okay, I think I'm okay," she said. "Did you catch him?"

Sherlock nodded, still staring at her face, glancing at the box, back at her face. 

"Can you help me up?" she asked. "The sooner I get out of this thing, the better." 

Joan reached out and grasped Sherlock's shoulders, still feeling lightheaded from lack of air. He got a grip under her arms and helped her stand,  guided her out of the metal box and towards the door.

"I could carry you," he said, holding her around the waist. "But you seem to be doing fine."

"I'm fine," Joan replied. There had been a slight quaver in his voice. "I'll be okay."

Sherlock nodded and she slipped her hand into his, gave it a squeeze. "You caught him. I'm fine."

"We caught him."

"He won't be able to do that to anyone else."

Sherlock squeezed her hand in return, brought it to his mouth and kissed her fingers, scraped and bruised from pushing at the lid of the box. She wiggled them in his grip. When he let go she brushed her thumb along his cheekbone.  

"I'm alright," she repeated, to herself and to him, and he nodded once again.  

 

 

_(5.5. "Why do the Captain and I keep catching Holmes kissing you?"_

_"I don't know, Bell, but I can assure you the only motives he has are related to cracking cases. Now that Mycroft's gone, anyway.")_

 

  

**6\. Of All The Reasons**

First there was the burning pain, then the dull throbbing, and more burning and then the other sensations came back. Senses came back, like he'd been underwater (like he'd been high). Cotton pillowcase. Polyester sheets. Low threadcount - antiseptic, smell of salted water (saline), sheets with the faintest scent of burnt fabric (faulty sheet press) but also washing power (unscented, could trigger allergies if not). The squeak of shoes and wheels on the floor outside, traffic in the street both steady (moving with purpose) after visiting hours. Late evening. 

"I know you're awake," said a voice. Beeswax. Cashmere. Ginger tea (he'd made some that afternoon, and that was the last thing he could remember). Watson. "You don't have to open your eyes."

"I'm not planning on that," said Sherlock, and that was an effort. His voice was rough, his speech slurred. "What happened?"

He could feel cool fingers resting on the back of one of his hands.

"Out of everything we do that could land one of us in hospital," said his partner, and he could hear warmth and icy fear and relief in her familiar tone, "you ignore stomach pain and end up here with acute appendicitis." 

"That," said Sherlock, dimly recalling mild discomfort whilst on the hunt for an embezzler. "I didn't think it was that bad."

"You collapsed in the kitchen."

"I'm sorry."

"You're cleaning it up when we get home. There was tea all over the floor."

"I'm ill." Sherlock tilted his face to where Watson's voice was coming from. "Did they give me drugs?"

"A usual mixup of general anaesthetic gas. You're currently on non-narcotic painkillers."

He frowned, and that hurt. "Watson, I-"

"You were quite firm, if delirious on not having any drugs. I'm listed as your emergency contact, and I had them put you on non-narcs. You've been clean for nearly three years Sherlock, so the nitrous in the anaesthetic shouldn't have had any negative influence on you. Often, avoiding pain medication can be a bigger trigger for relapse than having an appropriate amount of painkillers. Your doctor and nurses will be in charge of your medication. All of them know about your history - not the details, but they need to know - and they'll ask before administering anything, rather than assuming."

"You're not my sober companion any more."

"Friends do this for each other too."

Sherlock found himself smiling at that, prising his eyes open to see Watson smiling down at him in the dark hospital room. Her face was tired and pale, but other than that she looked fine. Beautiful.

"I'm sorry to always draw you through these things. What time is it?"

"10:30," she replied, looking at a clock that  hung over his bed. He could hear the ticks. "You went down at 5.30, I called an ambulance at 5.35 and they were prepping you for surgery just after six. Getting a free OR was the only problem - it's Friday night, and it's New York."

He would have nodded, but his extremities still felt like lead. 

"You should go home," he said. "We've had a lot of excitement over the past few days."

"You'll be okay here?"

"I think I'll be catching up on sleep," he admitted, eyes sliding shut again. "Though I'm sure I could make room for you, the doctors may complain. And you're unchaperoned."

"Unchaperoned." said Watson, and he could imagine her ducking her head to hide a smile. Her chair creaked as she stood. "I'll have my phone on if you need me." There was a rustle as she rested one hand on the mattress. Her hair tickled his neck and she pressed her cool lips to his forehead. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Sleep well, Watson."

"Night, Sherlock," she said. He listened to her heels on the linoleum, her opening the door and leaving it ajar on her way out. 

Sherlock reached up with one heavy hand and brushed it over his forehead. Then he clasped his hands together, rested them on his chest and let the sounds of the hospital and the city outside lull him into a doze. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end ficlet discussing the use of painkillers and knockout gas on former drug addicts was based on one brief conversation with a nurse and some very general research; if there's any grievous errors please let me know! I really hope the show brings up this issue soon, as in Sherlock and Joan's line of work they're inevitably going to end up in hospital with injuries at one point or another. Thanks for reading!


	2. five times (and one more time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inverse - five times Joan kissed Sherlock, and one time he kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the original, these are set at various points throughout the seasons, some far more specific than others, though that should be obvious. Thanks to Ameera and Sam for their wonderful feedback, and Ameera for the mouthwash line. Enjoy!

**1\. Marvel-lous Distractions**

 Surveillance, in theory, could be exciting. It could be tense. It could be nerve-wracking. Joan read tomes on trailing people through cities and countryside, night and day, culture to culture. Sherlock pointed her towards a blog that studied the arterial flow and connections of city traffic in the major metropolises of the world (London, New York, Beijing, Sydney, Tokyo, Brazil), so if a tailed car was lost on one road, the investigator could instantly call to mind the potential paths it would likely take from its last known locale. Surveillance was a marathon, not a sprint, and you needed to pace yourself. 

In reality, surveillance was sitting in cold cars for hours on end and drinking takeaway coffee while Sherlock tuned the radio to static or Radio Moscow and made irritated 'tsking' noises when she or Marcus or Alfredo changed it to something with actual music, or god forbid, baseball. So if it was a marathon, it was more akin to a 42-k one in horrendous weather at night, rather than a leisurely long-distance jog through Central Park. 

For a nice change of pace, she was on a bench facing into the dollar store that was a potential front for an up-and-coming drug running group that appeared to have its roots in Chile. A further bonus - they were inside, a shopping mall that felt more New Jersey than New York. Joan had never particularly liked malls, but after spending the previous weekend inside a Nissan Hatchback with Sherlock waiting for an illegal arms deal that had never occurred, she felt she was in the lap of luxury. 

Sherlock had taken up residence a hundred yards down, sitting by a fountain and the escalators and studying the local teenage population. Pretending to be immersed in her cell - "Mobile phones, Watson, they're the modern detective's prop newspaper with eyeholes cut out" - Joan waited for their mark to leave the store. She shifted, trying to get her blood flowing in the cold. Her phone buzzed.

SHERLOCK: Amazing: even 10yrs on Mean Girls still primary source of humorous quotes amgst teens. I weep 4 the future. 

Joan smiled down at the phone screen, then glanced up as Mathias Fuentes exited the dollar store and turned left, down towards Sherlock. 

JOAN: Fuentes on move to you.

Joan stood, slipped her bag onto her shoulder. She surreptitiously looked behind her using the reflections in the store windows. Seeing the coast was clear of his gang buddies, she set off in his tracks at a respectful dozen feet, eyes still apparently down on her phone.

SHERLOCK: Can't see F yet.

Mathias had his own phone out of his pocket, and Joan took the opportunity as he began to text to look behind her. First glance - clear. Back to Mathias, who had finished messaging. Three, two, one - casual second glance back, just a simple shopper, did she see someone she knew? This second glance yielded poor news.

JOAN: Guy behind me. Think working w F. Tatts the same.

SHERLOCK: Y [this meant 'yes,' not 'why.' Joan would never understand why Sherlock, who praised text-speak to the high heavens, would not conform to one of its most widely used abbreviations] Should abort.

JOAN: Nearly to you.

A third glance told her Mathias's buddy had been joined by two other similarly well-built young men. Mathias continued to stride ahead of her towards to where the escalators to the second floor of the mall were situated. Sherlock was waiting below them and apparently immersed in - judging from his expression - CandyCrush. Mathias stepped onto the escalator, looked behind himself with a frown. Joan veered off towards Sherlock, who looked up from his phone and smiled.

"Sorry," he said. "I got confused about where we were meeting. His comrades are still watching us."

Joan pocketed her phone. "Did you ever see the Winter Soldier?"

He shook his head. "I'm not quite sure about the relevance of-"

"Public displays of attention tend to make people uncomfortable," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"Yes. They do," he said, face tensing. "We can't lose them. Without any physical evidence, we're the only ones really watching this gang before bodies start appearing and-"

Joan was wearing one of her highest pairs of heeled boots, but she still had to go on tiptoe to reach Sherlock's face. Some parts (most parts) of her brain screeched that this was _very weird_ and would be discussed later and her nerves were on fire for the same reason and because of the three men approaching. Thankfully, as her lips brushed his, Sherlock bent slightly and covered the rest of the height difference. One hand came around to press against her back, but Joan could feel the tension radiating through his shoulders. With his spare hand Sherlock brushed her hair back from her face and rested his fingers at the hollow of her throat. For a few seconds she remained still, hyperaware of both the gangsters behind them and Sherlock's warmth and stubble and chapped lips, then-

"Is it working?" she murmured against his mouth.

"They're on the escalators," he said, and she pulled away, grabbing his hand as she went.

"Couples who kiss in public are going to be affectionate in public," she said, faking a smile. He nodded, and wove his fingers in-between hers.

"Now let's catch up to them," said Joan, and off up the escalators they went, Sherlock wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"When did you switch mouthwash brands?" he asked.

 

 

**2\. Four Holidays (All Useless)**

"New Year is an arbitrary celebration, Watson," he said, leaning against her doorframe. "Compared to Chinese New Year, Islamic New Year, various solstice markers - many forms of crime, do in fact go down on this New Year's Eve-"

"Premeditated murders, suicides, armed robberies, I know," she said. "Unfortunately sexual assaults and abuse go up, and accidental deaths. Drunk and disorderly arrests-"

"I sense this is a rebuke for the extra reading regarding crime rates and holidays I assigned you."

"Assigning is fine," said Joan, slipping on a gold dangly earring and turning her head in the mirror. Satisfied with the look, she found its match. "Stacking them up outside the bathroom door so high I can't get out while I'm showering, not so much."

"I shall bear that in mind," said Sherlock. "What time does your soiree end?"

"Not sure, but I should be back by one. I may have a glass of champagne or two, do you think you'll be okay with that?"

"I have been sober for nearly two years, I think I can handle the lingering odour of Dom Perignion."

Joan stood, picked up her clutch. "Back by one."

"At which time it will nearly be midday on January the first in New Zealand and ten AM in Eastern Australia and Vladivostok."

"I will see you later, 1AM, New York time," she said, moving around him and downstairs. Sherlock followed her.

"You are welcome to come," she reminded him. "Emily would like to meet you in a non-work setting."

"As I said, Watson, it's an arbitrary, commercialised holiday and an assault on the senses. The last New Year's party I attended in 2008 - and 2009 as well, I suppose, I was violently chased down by a drunken DJ called Sick Girl who could not bear to remain unkissed at midnight." He grimaced. "Cases, however, are a worthwhile outlet for my energies this evening. Crime does not stop, though traffic by now probably has."

"Goodnight then," said Joan, as he helped her into her coat and then shut the door behind her.

 ---

Silence in the Brownstone. Sherlock stood in the emptiness for a moment, then shook himself and fetched Clyde, giving the small animal a strawberry. He put an Edith Piaf record on, banked up the fire and sitting on the rug, buried himself in files. Midnight presumably ticked by at some point. Clyde kept counsel with his strawberry.

 ---

By 2am he'd almost solved a 45-year old bank heist from Newfoundland (his fifth of the night) and Watson's heels were clicking on the stairs outside and her keys were rattling in the door. 

"How was your party?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his papers when she shut the door. He listened to her shrugging off her coat, bringing with it smells of the party she'd been at - cigarette smoke, the acid chemical scent of sparklers, mid-range champagne; they'd had Korean for dinner. Watson finished hanging up her coat, deposited her clutch and stepped through the doorway to face him on the rug. She took a seat in her armchair by the fire, loosening her hair from its bun.

"It was good," she said, a small smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. "I saw a lot of people I haven't seen in a long while. How was your night?"

Clyde had nearly finished his first strawberry of the year. 

"Uneventful. Solved a cold case from Kansas, 1932. Unfortunately the murderer died in 1997."

"Good for him, I suppose," said Watson, standing. "Well, I'm going to bed."

"Lots of - New Year's traditions, going on?" Sherlock asked, trying to hide his curiosity. "I mean you've obviously been handling sparklers, a safer form of firework, but your lipstick says you went unkissed at midnight."

Watson paused, put one hand on her hip. "So did you."

"I wasn't the one at the party. Sleep well, Watson," Sherlock turned back to the Newfoundland file. 

Suddenly Watson was over him, blocking out his light. He frowned, shifted the papers slightly. Watson stooped, placed her left hand on the curve of his jaw, tilted his head up and kissed him gently on the lips, her hair flowing between them like a dark curtain. She traced her fingers over the sharp angle of his cheekbone, then stood, a warm look in her eyes and a sleepy smile on her face.

"Happy new year, Sherlock," she said, and headed upstairs. 

He listened out for her door shutting. Sherlock pressed his fingers against his lips. "Happy new year, Watson." he looked down at a rustle. "And to you too, Clyde."

  

 

**3\. Uncut Lunch**

"This one?"

"Botched home invasion. Got off a few shots but the mother got him back with their own gun."

"Living room?"

"Murder-suicide. I like the christmas tree, that's ah - that's kind of sick, actually. And in those readings you assigned, it said murders and suicides go down around the holidays."

"Call it artistic verisimilitude. Pathos. What about here?" Sherlock pointed to the attic of the dollhouse, which he'd filled with small handcrafted models of old furniture, trunks, and a few rolls of fabric. There was also a small, handmade corpse made from felt sitting in a little rocking chair, a small revolver on the floor on its right.

"Staged suicide," said Joan. "A clever one, but the doll used its…right hand, but its wearing a wristwatch on the right arm. Lefties wear theirs on the right - why would it shoot itself with its non-dominant hand?"

"Excellent work, Watson. I think you've broken your record," said Sherlock.

"I wasn't keeping track." Joan looked at the staged scene of the attic a little closer. "Did you paint brainspatter on the wall?"

"It's porridge with grey paint. Texture." Sherlock leaned over her shoulder and picked at a piece of it, sending the little corpse rocking in its chair.

"If we're done here, I'm gonna go get ready for lunch with Mycroft. He'll be here soon - we're going to Diogenes. He's got a new dessert chef that he wants-"

Sherlock frowned at the brain matter. 

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm? Yes, go try my brother's desserts. If coitus ensues, please try and keep it away from this residence."

Joan rolled her eyes. "Sherlock-"

"I'll be here. Or at the station, if the Captain ever chooses to call."

As Joan attempted to turn and go upstairs, away from the dollhouse of death, Sherlock stepped into her path to further examine one of his crime scenes. Joan stumbled on a slightly loose board and the two collided, the point of contact being their lips. Detective and protege (but basically detective in her own right) stood frozen for a few seconds as if they could pretend that This Was Not Happening even while This Continued To Happen. Finally Joan's brain caught up with her lips and Sherlock's thoughts merged into one coherent concept, which was two letters long and began with 'N' and ended in 'O.'

Someone cleared their throat. "Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Joan and Sherlock broke apart to see a bewildered Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" he repeated, looking at Sherlock. "Though can I say, that would explain a lot."

"How the hell did you get in?" Sherlock replied, sounding slightly out of breath. 

"No, no - wow, no-" began Joan.

"I have a key," said Mycroft. "This is still our father's property, need I remind you?"

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

"There's a unique Australian saying that fits in with this dynamic quite well," Sherlock stepped smartly away from Joan and exeunted, making for the stairs, calling over his shoulder. "I assure you, Mycroft, she remains entirely your uncut lunch."

A door slammed overhead.

Mycroft looked at Joan. Joan looked at Mycroft, who shrugged.

"You know what, I don't even want to know," she said. 

 

 

**4\. Family Matters**

"Wait!" Sherlock shouted. "Let me say goodbye to the woman I love!"

The man holding a gun to his head froze, glanced towards Joan where she was tied to the exposed metal framework of the building. If her hands hadn't been tied at her waist, her thoughts fuzzy from the concussion she'd gotten when she had been forced up against the wall, she would have facepalmed despite the tension of the situation.

Michael Lynch looked back at Sherlock, not removing the gun from Sherlock's bruised temple.

"Let me - bid her farewell," Sherlock continued awkwardly. "I mean, you and your girlfriend are murdering us to ensure your other crimes never see the light of day, and you can flee to some non-extradition backwater and live out your days running a leper colony. At least, in the spirit of your romantic entanglements, let us have a moment of privacy. Actually, if you two hadn't decided to murder us, I'd have considered letting you go-"

"Please!" said Joan, sensing that the second half of Sherlocks statement would negate the good of the first, "just a minute to ourselves."

The gunman shook his head. "If I leave, you two will cook up some escape plan-"

"One last kiss?" asked Sherlock, with his 'stab in the dark' voice.

"Let them, Michael!" shouted Michael's partner in crime, Ingrid. She was guarding the door outside. "They're doomed lovers, just like us! I don't want to kill them anyway!"

"I know sweetie!" Michael said, almost absent-mindedly. "But we've got to kill them, they know all our secrets!" Michael's attention was mostly on Sherlock, and so Joan got to roll her eyes in disgust. 

"We thought you weren't a couple," said Michael. "You specifically said, at the precinct, that you weren't."

"We lied. The NYPD doesn't allow couples-"

"-Spouses," said Joan, and outside Ingrid let out an "awww."

"Yes, spouses, to work together, officially, so we keep it on the down-low."

"You do live together," said Michael. 

"Yes. Married three years. She changed my life. Saved it too, I'd be dead in some gutter or back-alley if it wasn't for Joan Watson. My wife. I…love….her." Compared to some of the undercover work Joan had seen Sherlock do, it was nowhere near his best performance. Michael's head swivelled to look at Joan. Outside she could hear Ingrid shifting to listen in on the conversation. 

"He made me who am I today," she said, focusing on the words through her aching head, looking over at Sherlock. As Michael's attention was diverted, he had begun to pick at the bindings on his own wrists. "We've been through a lot together. His addiction. The death of his brother. We lost - we lost our daughter, too-"

Sherlock's fingers stumbled as he worked at a knot, and he shot a confused glance in her direction. 

Joan leant her head back against the wall. 

"What's going on?" asked Ingrid.

"Her name was Kitty," said Joan. "We loved her, both of us did, and we never got to even say a proper goodbye-"

"Alright, alright, shut up, you can have one final kiss before I shoot you both," said Michael. He tucked the gun into his pants - not turning the safety on, Joan noted - walked over to her and untied her from the wall. 

Hands still bound at her front, Michael led her over to Sherlock. He tapped his fingers together three times, clenched his fists; a signal his hands were loose though they appeared to still be bound. She held hers slack; Michael had been watching her too closely for her to make an attempt to free herself and besides, her head was killing her. Sherlock took her hands in his rougher ones, slipping his index fingers up her wrists. He met her eyes. 

"Would you mind facing the wall, please?" Sherlock asked Michael.

"You seem obviously nervous for a man about to kiss his wife."

"You're about to shoot us," Joan retorted. "He was nervous enough kissing in the church on our wedding day."

Behind her, she heard Michael take the gun out of his waistband. Sherlock's fingers tugged at one of the knots on her wrist. 

He'd need another few seconds. Thankfully the mists of her concussion obscured her usual nagging 'this is something that will need to be discussed later' thoughts, and Joan stepped forward on tiptoe and and caught Sherlock's mouth with her own. For a moment, she felt his hands falter, and he leant into her, sighing into her mouth. He nipped at her bottom lip with his teeth, his three days of stubble rubbing against her skin. Joan's eyes fluttered shut and she felt Sherlock drag his lips across her own, across her cheek, to her ear. He rested his lips there, buried his face in her hair - and with a tug, confirmed Joan's bindings were loose. 

Adrenaline countering her concussion, Joan whirled and kneed Michael in the groin, snatching the gun from him. Sherlock moved around her, drove his elbow into Michael's head; he crumpled up on the concrete, unconscious. 

"Michael, what's going on in there?" Ingrid called. 

Sherlock and Joan glanced at each other, then at the door.

"Slight change of plans, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. "Would you like to step away from the door and put your hands up?"

 

 

**5\. Step Nine**

"And then I left him there. The reservation at Hemdale is still open, if he should ever truly hit bottom and decide…to go. I don't know if he has anyone else to make him."

"You can't be that person," said Joan. "This whole week has been incredibly hard for you. Even just seeing a person from your days of addiction can be a trigger - I can't imagine what trying to deliberately call up your experiences while on drugs."

"Shameful, I like I said," he replied, then turned to face her, the fire playing over his face and emphasising the shadows under his eyes. "But they are things that I - should deal with. Other shameful things I did on narcotics not related to destroying my liver or sanity."

Joan stared into her half-empty mug, the tea quickly cooling.

"I'm making a list. Well, I already had a list. I'm adding to it. I went through some of my other case files this afternoon, ones I took while using."

"Are we going to try and solve them?"

"Yes. Or, if they have been solved by others, I'll try and offer my apologies. Or renumeration. Uh." Sherlock rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I did abandon step nine, I feel. Making amends. Lestrade was a success, Mycroft was a dismal failure. Everything else, everyone else - well, I got distracted."

"That could take you months," said Joan.

"I have time. Though I'm taking the night off. You're right, Watson, it has been a very trying week." Turning back to look at the fire, as if unaware of what he was doing, Sherlock reached out and put his hand over hers. Joan turned her hand over and laced their fingers together.

"Thank you for believing in me," he said. "Even when I said you shouldn't."

"You've still got that photo of yourself up there," said Joan.

"I haven't the energy to take it down. If I ever try to go without sleep for more than three days, please feel free to remind me of this moment."

"I've been waiting nearly three years to hear you say that," said Joan, giving up on her tea and putting it on the table. "Maybe you should head to bed."

"I tried, earlier, while you were at the station with Marcus. I saw some things I'd rather not willingly submit to."

"You saw her, didn't you?"

"I didn't kill her. I know I didn't. But it's like my mind is punishing me."

"Why would it be doing that?" Joan turned Sherlock's hand over in hers, ran her fingers over his palm. "This scrape is only a few hours old. You didn't get this in the beating. How did you get this?"

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "I think I had a panic attack. Same room as last time, now I think on it. I'll fall asleep eventually - you're welcome to go upstairs."

"You should have called me."

"It's rather difficult to operate a mobile in the throes of fight-or-flight mode," he said.  

"I'm going to stay with you until you fall asleep," Joan said. "No more pots and pans."

"You really are, aren't you."

All in all, it took Sherlock less than five minutes to doze off in the warmth of the room. Carefully, Joan stood, placed Sherlock's hand on the arm of his chair and fetched the blanket from the couch. As she leant over her partner to lay the blanket on him, he stirred.

"G'night Watson," he mumbled, eyes still shut. Joan tilted her head and gently rested her lips against his temple, pressed her fingers on the back of his hand.

"Night, Sherlock. I'll be upstairs if you need me."

His reply was delayed, but came while she was walking upstairs.

"I'll be here if you need me."

 

 

**6\. After a Fashion**

"This is yours," said Joan. She let the overstuffed box of files drop onto the table in front of Sherlock. "it's the last of your stuff from the basement. Non-lethal stuff, anyway."

Sherlock surveyed the box over his cell phone. "Sorry, I thought I moved those already. You didn't read them, did you?"

"No - unlike some, I respect people's privacy around here."

"I've been making efforts to respect your boundaries. I thought we'd had the discussion. I'm doing well."

"Waking me up to ask permission to put Clyde in my bed is a violation of boundaries. We talked about this yesterday." Joan placed her hand on the box. "Just, find a home for this, please? I'm going to meet Marcus to grab those files for that cold case."

\--- 

She returned a few hours later to find the files and papers from the box scattered all over the library and foyer. Sherlock stood in the parlour at the centre of the papers, clutching one in his hand.

"Watson, may I speak with you for a moment?"

"Sure," she said, taking off her coat and putting her purse down on the shelf. Joan sat on the couch, crossing her legs. "Everything okay?"

"Splendid. Nothing to worry about. These are from this morning."

"I noticed. Are you just ensuring Miss Hudson earns her salary?"

"We both know she does more than that," Sherlock looked at the paper in his hands, folded it up into halves, quarters, eighths, twelfths, then out again. "When I departed for the UK without fair warning, I realise I did a great deal of damage to our partnership. Since then, the shared traumas and experiences we've gone through have helped regain some sense of that business-partner balance. However, my choice nearly destroyed the _friendship_ we had built, a relationship that I should have realised sooner was of more import to me than the mere pleasure of solving cases with you. You're one of the few friends I have and it is the loss of that, that intimacy I regret." He paused, looked over at Joan.

"If this is one of your apologies, it certainly tops the list."

"I'm not finished yet. But I am sorry. The experiences, positive and negative," and there was Andrew again, and the absence of Kitty, "that we have shared have helped regain some of that closeness. This," Sherlock held out the paper, now crumpled from his repeated foldings and unfolding to Joan. "That is one page of the transcript from my conversation with Bella, the AI system we encountered. The rest is hokum." He stepped out on one leg and proffered it to Joan, who took it.

"I have trouble expressing my fee _lings_ ," he said, stressing the last syllable. "Especially with the people they relate to. So. I wanted you to know that. What's in there. After the last few months."

Joan unfolded the paper, looking away from Sherlock as he watched her, tapping his fingers against his thumbs. She skimmed through the first half of the page, which seemed to mostly Sherlock ranting at the machine, until a few lines at the bottom caught her attention.

 

 **TESTER 212b:** Is love real?

 **BELLA:** I DON'T UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION. COULD I HAVE MORE INFORMATION?

 **TESTER 212b:** Love. Surely it's a human construct, a hedge against the terror of mortality. I believe that. But that doesn't account for times I've felt it myself. With my mother. Irene. Even. After a fashion, with Watson. It vexes. Love is either a human construct or it's a real thing, right?

 

 _With Watson_. Joan read the slightly blurred text again, felt her lips moving into an unbidden smile. She looked up at Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed at a point on the carpet.

"Not like that," he said. "But you know that. You know now, and - yes. Yes."

"Thank you for this." said Joan. "This means a lot."

The carpet continued to interest him. He nodded. 

"I can't say it. Out loud. But please know I mean it."

Joan folded the paper up, small enough to fit in her cupped hand. She curled her fingers around it.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I - love you too." The paper was warm in her palm.

Sherlock looked over at her with an expression similar to the one he'd worn the night she'd escaped la Milieu, but instead of a grim slash of a mouth he wore a slight smile. He nodded, eyes fixed on her face.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked finally, and Sherlock nodded again.

He trailed after her into the kitchen, standing awkwardly by the refrigerator as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. He watched her take mugs down and select teabags, fill the mugs carefully with the hot water, her face smooth. Joan took both mugs over to the table and set them down. She motioned for Sherlock to sit beside her at the table. Numbly, he sat.

Joan took a careful sip from her own cup with her right hand, still holding the folded paper in her left. She took a deep breath.

"I just needed a minute to process," she said. "I know it's hard for us to. Talk about this stuff."

"I'm not telling you this to hasten the repair of our friendship. I just feel, given the events of the last few months, it would be better if you knew. I just can't," and here he moved his hand in small circles, "say it."

"I understand," Joan said.

In the other room, his phone began to ring. 

"That is…unfortunate." he said, standing. "I'm expecting a call from the Captain." Joan sat back as he exited, closed her eyes and sighed. Sherlock's voice drifted back through the house. She heard him bid the caller farewell, his footsteps heading back. 

"Any news?" she asked, opening her eyes and looking over to him standing in the doorway. He took a deep breath.

"I love you," he said. He walked across the room, leant over and kissed her quickly on the temple. "And I believe we've found our murderer." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the lunch saying is just an Aussie thing, but basically it's an outdated saying where if one man moves in on another man's girlfriend/love interest, it's said he's "cutting someone else's lunch." Because women are food. It's kind of gross but not hard to imagine Sherlock saying it when he also assumed Mycroft only slept with Joan to get back at him, and considered drawing up a shared custody agreement for Joan.


	3. another five, another one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five more times when sherlock kissed joan, one more time she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These ones all take place after the season three finale and so there are vague spoilers for all seasons including the finale. A giant thank you to Lisa for looking these over for me, her amazing feedback and inspiring the title of the last scene.

**1\. Tapping In, Tapping Out**

A month of being barred from consulting with the NYPD (almost three months after his relapse in total) meant Sherlock was ready and raring to go when the Captain finally asked Joan to bring him on a case. The details of the case were just abonus.

"Dismemberments are uniquely foul and uniquely fascinating," he said to Joan in the cab on the way to the precinct. He drummed his fingers against his thighs, caught her look. "The case involves drugs. I'll take it easy. I promise."

"If you need to tap out of this, no one's going to think less of you," Joan said. "Also, I don't know if you've seen him recently, but Gregson is growing a mustache. Please don't - comment on it."

"Is it terrible? And Watson, I am aware of basic social niceties, I just choose not to engage with them."

Joan made a valiant attempt at keeping a straight face. "It's different. I've never been one for facial hair."

"Marcus has a beard. Mycroft had that thing he called a mustache. I've had a beard at-"

"No, you have untidy stubble at random times because you're too lazy or distracted to shave."

 --

Day one went well. They looked at crime scenes, autopsy reports, watched the footage of Marcus and the Captain interviewing the three major suspects, Fuentes, Rykens and Thomson. Marcus was happy to see Sherlock back at work - he'd visited the Brownstone a few times but seeing Sherlock showered and not wearing the same two-week-old hoodie was a welcome return to normality. 

Gregson's mustache was terrible. Sherlock pretended not to notice.

 --

Day two meant they lost Rykens to a heroin overdose. Which seemed to point towards Ryken's guilt in a very obvious way. Unfortunately, Marcus, Joan and Sherlock were the ones to find his body.

"He's not in the kitchen!" called Joan.

"Bedroom's clear! And bathroom!" shouted Marcus.

"He's in the living room," said Sherlock, a strange note in his voice. 

Joan and Marcus moved back towards him as Sherlock made his way out of the darkened room. He seemed to stare through Joan on his way past. "I'm going to wait in the hallway," he said quietly. "This is just a bit too - ironic."

Rykens was twenty-five, with a daughter to his ex-girlfriend, a new job at an auto shop, and he still had a needle in his arm when they found him. Marcus called the ambulance, but told them not to bother with sirens. Joan phoned the Captain, and when other police began to arrive, went out to check on Sherlock who-

-wasn't in the hallway. Swallowing down a sudden wave of panic, Joan checked her cell. Nothing. She moved further down the corridor, away from the stream of police, typed out a message.

JOAN: Where have you gone? Are you okay?

She didn't realise she was counting until she got to twenty. Her phone vibrated.

SHERLOCK: going home. In taxi rn.

SHERLOCK: u were right. Im tapping out.

Joan breathed out. In. Moved her thumbs across the keyboard.

JOAN: Are you okay?

SHERLOCK: Mostly. Shaky. Keep on case. I'll b here.

JOAN: You sure?

SHERLOCK: Im sure. C u at home.

 "Everything alright with Holmes?" Marcus asked. Joan looked over at him from her phone, her fingers curling protectively around the screen. 

"I think so," she said. "Yeah."

"Too much too soon?"

"Pretty much," said Joan. "Next time he'll do better."

 JOAN: See you tonight. Call if you need me.

SHERLOCK: I will x. 

 

 

 **2\. Left of Legal**  

He had no legal claim to Watson, which was - a sentence with a lot of issues. The man sitting opposite shot him an irritated glare, and Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers against the arms of his chair. No legal reason to be in the room with Watson. Better. Was not allowed in the room, with Watson, whom he was not related to. Or married to. What was the phrase? 

No legal right. Less cro-magnon. He ran his fingers through his hair again. Still didn't solve the problem that was him, out _here_ , Watson in _there_.

"Uh, Sherlock," said Gabrielle, stepping into the waiting room. "You can come in now. Unless you need a minu - no, okay."

Sherlock shot to his feet and followed Gabrielle through the hallways of the hospital, down to the room they were keeping Watson in. Her family was trailing out of the room as they approached, tired but relieved. Oren nodded awkwardly to him, took Gabrielle's hand and they headed towards the nurses station. Mary caught Sherlock by the elbow.

"She's awake," she said. "She's going to be alright, it will just take time. Sherlock, are you okay?"

He nodded, licked his lips nervously. "Do you have a place to stay? Because we have plenty of room at the Brownstone if you haven't been able to find a hotel-"

"We're at the Astor," said Mary. She patted him on the arm. "We'll be in the waiting room. Go in. She's asking for you."

Sherlock let himself into the hospital room, where Watson lay in bed, staring out the window and idly fiddling with her hair. Her left eye was still almost swollen shut, a purple bruise along her cheek and jaw. Her arms were covered in abrasions. He paused in the doorway, clenching his fists. Finally, Watson turned her head towards him.

"I am on a lot of pain medication right now," she announced, her voice slurred. 

Sherlock made himself move, sat in the chair by her bedside, snagging her chart as he went. 

"I can see why you did this. This is fantastic. Like I feel like I'm gonna throw up, but other than that. Fantastic."

He had to laugh at that. Bitterly, but it was a laugh all the same. "How are you feeling?"  

"Fan _tast_ ic. How are you?"

Sherlock began to flip through the chart. "I've never been pushed out of a second-story window before. Watson-"

"Did you catch the guy? And how are _you_ feeling?" 

"Eventually." He'd pushed the suspect down the stairs, into a wall and hogtied him until the ambulance had shown up, fingers fumbling desperately at Watson's neck until he found a pulse, no clear broken bones, Watson terrifyingly unresponsive.

"Two broken ankles, left wrist broken, four cracked ribs and a mild concussion." 

"A controlled descent," said Watson, eyes sliding shut. "I'm glad you called my mom. Why weren't you with my mom?"

"They wouldn't let me in. We're not related." He'd forgotten how insipid people on painkillers could be, and wondered vaguely if he'd spouted this kind of nonsense in his various trips down the rabbit hole.

"You said so much shit when you were high last time. That time. Never seen you high before." said Watson, as if reading his mind. "You cried a lot. Kept apologising. _I'm sorry Watson I'm sorry_. I felt bad. And then tired. I don't mind taking care of you, Sherlock, I just don't want to do it. All the time. I always end up taking care of people."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry." 

Watson reached out her one good arm - her right - for him, fingers stretching. He cupped her small scratched hand in his, turned it over to study her palm.

"Did you invite my family to stay with us. If you did, uninvite them. Please. I love my mom. But no. She takes longer showers than I do. She'll hate the curtains. I hate my curtains. I need better curtains."

"She's not going to stay with us."

"She's not going to stay with us," mimicked Watson in an accent that sounded vaguely Welsh. "You're going to insist on staying with me, aren't you?"

Sherlock gathered her hand up in his, kissed her palm. Watson smiled.

"You'll be taking care of me for a while," she said sleepily. 

"I most certainly will be," he whispered.

 

**3\. Christmas Tradition**

Marcus was mildly surprised at the wreath on the door, pleasantly surprised when a stunning blonde woman opened it, and overall shocked to see tinsel and holly bedecking the walls of the Brownstone.

"I'm Miss Hudson," said the woman. "You must be Marcus, Sherlock said you were coming by. Come on in. Would you like some tea?"

Slightly overwhelmed, Marcus nodded, trailing after Miss Hudson into the hall. "Uh, yes please. Thanks."

"Bell," said Holmes from his seat on the floor in the living room. "Be careful, she's laced the place with mistletoe. Didn't ask her to decorate, I came home to this."

It was just past eight in the morning. "Where were you?" asked Marcus.

"Needed Marmite," said Holmes. "Watson's probably still asleep."

"I got those files," said Marcus, opening his bag. "I'm not sure why you're interested in pickpockets from the 1970s, or why I needed to be the one who brought them here but - " he held the bundle of dusty papers out to Holmes, who took them with a smile. 

"Mapping historical non-violent crime spots," Holmes said, pointing at a map tacked on the wall above the fireplace. He glanced over at the kitchen. "Ah, tea. One moment." He stood, pointed at the armchair. "Take a seat." 

Bemused, Marcus sat. Holmes strode across to the kitchen and, working around Miss Hudson who was cooking something on the stove, began loading cups onto a tray. There were footsteps from above and Joan padded down the stairs in sweatpants, a blue t-shirt and a fuzzy red cardigan. She saw Marcus, who waved awkwardly to her. 

"Morning - Is this about the map thing?" she asked, rubbing one of her eyes. "I'm gonna need coffee." She turned. "Miss Hudson, this decorating looks amazing, you didn't need to do all this!"

"It's my pleasure Joan - I did my own apartment, and then I had so much left over it seemed a waste. And this place has so much character, you know?" Miss Hudson said.

"Apparently there's mistletoe," said Marcus. "You've been warned."

Joan nodded, turned to step into the kitchen just as Holmes was emerging with the tray.

"There's some right there, in fact," said Miss Hudson.

Joan and Holmes looked up, and pinned to the doorframe above them was a bright sprig of mistletoe. With barely a pause, Holmes leaned across - keeping the tray masterfully steady - and kissed Joan carefully on top of her head. Marcus blinked. Nope, that had actually happened. Okay then. 

"It's too damn early for this," said Joan, continuing into the kitchen.

"I didn't want to do Christmas at all," Holmes said, bringing the tray back into the lounge room. "Mistletoe isn't even originally - sugar, Marcus?"

"What? Uh, no, thank you."

Sherlock sat back down on the rug, cupped his mug in one hand and pulled a file towards him with the other. "Miss Hudson is available, by the way," he said, and took a sip.

  

**4\. The Adventure of the Nice Guy**

"I don't see a ring on your finger," the man said, leaning into her personal space and staring at her hand. Joan shifted so her back was to him, caught the eye of a young woman standing near them in the packed subway car. The woman gave her the raised eyebrow and grimace of someone who'd been in that exact situation.

It was because of the people hemming them in that she didn't just haul her singlestick out of her purse and go to town on this guy. Joan tried to focus on her phone. Three more stops then she could just leave. And if this creep happened to follow her, well, at least she could deal with him with some more room to swing her arms.

"So are you from around here?" he asked, dragging his eyes up and down her body. "You dress like a New York native. Really highlights your assets."

"Leave me alone," she said again, turning back to her phone. 

"What's your name?"

"None of your business."

"Come on, I'm a nice guy."

"She said, back off, creep." snapped the woman from earlier. "Leave her alone."

"I'm just trying to have a conversation." 

The train pulled to a stop; a few people got off the packed carriage but many more pushed their way on. The guy leaned over to Joan again.

"So you're single, then."

Something in her snapped. "No. I've got a-"

"If you've got a boyfriend, where is he?"

"We don't need to be together 100% of the time. Some of us aren't that desperate."

"I don't reckon you have a boyfriend. Show me a pict-"

"Oh, she does, and he's here," said a British-accented voice. Sherlock shoved between two suited commuters, stood over the man. "You know, when a woman tells you to leave her alone, you should probably show some common decency and leave her alone." He turned to face Joan. "Sorry I'm late. Dear."

The train began to slow for the next stop. Joan stood, Sherlock placed his hand against her jaw and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Are you alright?" he whispered in her ear, nose brushing her hair. She nodded. Sherlock stepped back.

"Now, hopefully this is your stop because you're getting off here," said Joan to the man. 

"I'm getting off at-"

"You're getting off here," said Joan again. She folded her arms. The man frowned at her, at Sherlock, then stood and pushed his way off the carriage. Joan took her seat again, Sherlock next to her.

"Sorry," he said.

"No, I was thinking of calling you," she said. "It just - when they don't listen to you until another man comes along and tells them to back off. It's infuriating."

"I will never understand how you make it through life without beating most of the male gender to within an inch of their lives."

"Oh, well, I live with you. It's good practise."

"Watson, I would never - " Sherlock saw her smiling. "Oh. Well, still. I would never."

  

**5\. A Boarding-School Education**

Footsteps. Door opening. Plastic rustling. Under the covers, Joan sighed. It was too damn early for this.

"Can you dance?"

"I am _sleeping_."

There was the familiar sound of Sherlock taking three steps forward, laying a tray on the mattress beside her; the tiny rattle of a teaspoon and the familiar scent of coffee - the expensive blend. Three steps back. 

"Good morning, Watson. Breakfast. Can you dance?"

Joan pulled the covers off her head, squinted over at Sherlock. "Uh - yeah, I guess. I learnt it in PE in high school, and I remembered most of it at Oren's wedding." Briefly something like guilt flickered across Sherlock's face - Oren's wedding had taken place while he was back in the UK. "Yes, I can."

"Are you free Friday night?"

"What are we doing Friday night?" Joan sat up, collected her coffee.

"My father wishes for me to attend a benefit for one of his business partner's charities. Rich people, canapes, insipid discussions about other rich people and other canapes. There may be dancing."

"I can dance." Joan took a sip of coffee. She needed it.

"You don't have to come. I'd just rather have you with me than hiring someone. And showing up with both of the Lynch sisters would just seem like bad taste. My father is paying for the car. And the dress."

"The dress." 

"He didn't want you to be out of pocket for helping me." Sherlock stepped to one side, pointed at the dark red dress he'd draped over the cold cases chest she kept by the door. "I took the liberty of picking one out for you. We can take it back if you don't like it."

"I'm sure it's…okay. It's fine." Joan sat up straighter, ran her fingers through her hair. "It's great. Yeah, I'll come."

"Excellent. Thank you. Well." Sherlock pointed at the tray. "Enjoy." And with that, he left. 

Joan lingered over breakfast - they'd had a few late nights on a case that week - and thought about going back to sleep. Instead, nursing her coffee, she wandered downstairs to find Sherlock in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. 

"Do you know how to dance?"

"I went to boarding school in England, Watson," he said, standing and taking his bowl to the sink. "Of course I do." 

Joan put her coffee cup on the table. "Just checking." She looked up to see Sherlock in front of her. He bowed slightly, offered her his hand.

"Of course, it was an all-boys school," he said. "I can lead and follow."

Joan found herself smiling at that, took his hand and rested her other on his shoulder. Sherlock placed his hand lightly on her waist. 

"And one-two-three," he said, and they began to move around the kitchen. Joan focused on the steps, fixed her gaze on Sherlock's shirtfront. Sherlock hummed something by Mozart under his breath, steered them away from the table.

"What's the benefit for?" she asked, glancing down at their feet.

"I believe it's something to do with fracking. Eyes up, Watson. Probably against it. My father does a lot of awful things, but he does believe the environment needs to be preserved, if just for future profit potential. Ready?" Sherlock spun Joan out slowly, brought her back in again. "You should really practise in heels."

"I think I'm getting the hang of it," Joan said. "Just don't dip me."

"I'm not going to drop you, if that's your concern." 

They stopped moving. Sherlock let go of her waist, kept hold of her fingers. He stepped back and bowed again, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. For an embarrassing second, Joan wished she was wearing something other than trackpants and one of Sherlock's old sweaters.

"And _that_ is a British boarding-school education," he said, and let go. "I'll call my father and tell him you're coming."

Sherlock strode out of the kitchen. Joan lent against the bench, smiled. Maybe the benefit could be fun. She retrieved her coffee mug and rinsed it out. You never knew. 

  

**\+ 1. Schroedinger's Rooftop**

It seemed some of the best and worst conversations Joan had ever had in her life happened on rooftops. She got given a friendship necklace on the roof of her friend Katie's garage in fourth grade. Oren once fell off the roof of their beach house and six-year-old Joan had to be the one who peered over the edge after him and ask, "Are you okay?" in her quavering voice. One of the best parties she ever went to at college ended with her and a TA from the biomed department talking until 3AM about life, the universe and everything. And making out. But in hindsight the talk was more memorable.

Sherlock named a bee after her on this roof. She had to be the one to tell him his father was coming to New York on this roof. Joan caught the door that led back downstairs before it could be slammed shut by the wind, closed it carefully. 

Staring out at the city from the rooftop, Joan tried to smooth down her hair as it was tossed around by the cold breeze. She gave up, tucked it behind her ears and folded her arms across her chest.

"I have the strange sense of deja vu," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "Please tell me my father hasn't called."

Joan approached where he was sitting on his fold-out chair. "No, I just wanted to see where you were." 

Sherlock turned his head to look at her. "You're going to need a coat if you're planning on lingering."

"Miss Hudson will be here soon," said Joan. 

"Ah yes. The anniversary dinner. I suppose it's better than being forced to accept yet another first-year chip."

"Caroline said that's tomorrow. If you still feel up to it."

There was a creak as Sherlock stood, and handed her his coat, taking his seat again. Joan wrapped it around her shoulders.

"It would be good if you gave Miss Hudson a hand in the kitchen," she said. 

"I will. I just. I'm having a strangely intense period of reflection." Sherlock looked up at her. "Thank you, Watson."

She rested her hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "I'll see you downstairs."

Sherlock placed his hand over her own. 

"Or I could wait a minute," she said. "Do you want to talk about anything?"

"Not particularly. I'm just watching."

"Just watching," said Joan. The city moved by. After a few minutes, despite Sherlock's coat, Joan felt her legs beginning to freeze. With a sigh, she draped Sherlock's coat back around his shoulders.

"I'll see you downstairs, okay?" she said.

"I'll just be five minutes."

Joan went to leave, turned back and placed her hands back on Sherlock's shoulders. She leant over quickly, dropped a kiss on top of his head. Surprised, Sherlock tilted his head back until he could meet her gaze. She pressed their foreheads together.

"This is weird," he said. "You're being weird."

"I'm proud of you," she said.

Sherlock reached up and took both of her hands in his own. "Thank you."

 "Happy anniversary," said Joan.

Joan headed for the staircase and the warmth of the Brownstone and was halfway down the stairs when someone up above caught the door before it could slam shut. She smiled when she heard Sherlock's footsteps clattering down the steps behind her.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Madness for Two [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132388) by [disheveledcurls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls)




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